"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul . . ." ~Emily Dickinson

11 February 2009

Breakfast

I made grits, scrambled eggs and turkey bacon for breakfast this morning. It's a common Southern cuisine! And it's certainly not a foreign meal to me; I've been eating this meal since I was a little girl. I make it every few weeks. Today, however, I managed to make it exactly like my grandmother used to make them. I wasn't trying to do this, but I somehow mastered the taste of them and nostalgically journeyed to my grandmother's small kitchen on Calhoun St. in Cameden, SC. She died May 19 last year, so she doesn't live there anymore. Our memories do, though, and it felt good to taste good memories this morning.

I wrote this a few years ago. Today feels like a great time to share it on here:

She called us out of bed, and immediately I smelled it—the fragrance of Grandma’s house. Butter sauntering through a pot of grits. Coffee weighted by sugar and cream. Simmering bacon tossing its scent around the house before resting on a plate, ready for 5 and 6-year-old hands to grab and crumble on top of our morning feast. My sister and I loved mornings with Grandma. Mama protested us drinking coffee at such a young age because, of course, it stunts your growth, she’d say. Grandma apparently believed that the taste of coffee-flavored sugar water far outweighed the need to grow. And we didn’t dare remind Grandma she was breaking Mom’s rule. We giggled, then squeezed Grandma’s soft hands as she asked God to bless our meal.

Grandma doesn’t see like she used to, she can’t walk like she once did. She waits in her bed now for Granddad to bring breakfast to her. And there are days I long for nothing more than to be a little girl again, tasting Grandma’s house in the bacon and sipping lifelong memories with our coffee.